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Greetings, wretched wetlanders and pathetic cowards of the gluttonous south. It is I, Vrokthar, returned from a long absence to make his demands of you, the fat indolent swine that feed his mighty tribe. When last we spoke, I was pleased with the misery and chaos that was brewing in your decadent civilization. Indeed, this year has been even more glorious than the last! Vrokthar’s invincible raiding parties have been so busy pillaging the ignorant, defenseless villages of your horrid nation that I hath had scant opportunity to taunt thee via my magical word-slate (also, I lost the charger for some time and it was difficult to find a replacement – art thee aware that not all of thy power cords are equivalent? RESOLVE THIS AT ONCE!).

Yes, the mighty warband of I, Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, waxes daily. My warriors are well-fed upon heaps of man-bacon and entertained daily by the many wretched slaves dragged back to my longhouse. Truly, Vrokthar lives in a golden age.

But Vrokthar’s mighty appetites are endless! Though your absence of competent governance has laid the wealth of your impotent nation bare and ripe for the taking, there is still more I desire! No – more I shall have!

This is how I imagine the Great Claus appears. A worthy foe…

I speak, of course, of Santa Claus.

Yes, my wetlander slaves speak of him often. He is some kind of mystical champion, it seems, who travels forth on an enchanted battle-sledge yearly to deliver his spoils to the worthy among thee. Whilst I cannot imagine what you have done to earn his favor, it irks me that such a being – a sorcerer gifted with such great wealth – might be hiding in the arctic vastness of mine own lands! This is an affront! I will find this Claus, I will take his head, I will raze his house, and I shall take his enchanted sledge for my own! So it shall be!

It is for this reason that I have deigned to contact you, denizens of the mystical ether known as “Inter-not.” Heed carefully my words, for failure to do so shall be met with your endless agony:

BRING ME YOUR ELVES UPON SHELVES!

Do not ask how I know of them! Vrokthar’s sight is as mighty as that of the Claus! How clever of him to install spies in your homes – and also a sign of his weakness. Now, all I must do is capture these tiny creatures and torture them until the location of their master is revealed through their broken teeth and blood-caked lips.

There is an obstacle to overcome, however. Thanks to the Claus’s sorcerer’s tricks, all of the Elves on Shelves I have thus far apprehended have been transmuted to mere cloth and plastic before they could be put to the question. Initially I had thought it a mere ruse or, perhaps, the elves were only able to come to life in the light of the moon. Nevertheless, no matter how many of the perfidious creatures I placed upon my own shelf, they remained inert. The Claus, for all his cowardice, is a clever opponent. He cares nothing for the lives of his diminutive slaves (and well he should not!) and will sacrifice them freely to keep his location secret.

Such resolve, however, cannot last forever. The Claus will make a mistake! Mine own shamans have prepared mighty rituals to interfere with his infernal holiday sorcery. And then, oh, then will his fate be sealed! If torture cannot loosen the tongues of these elves (and Vrokthar’s tortures are mighty and varied indeed!), perhaps I might win their loyalty through the many boons I mighty shower upon their stocking-capped heads.

HEAR ME, OH ELVES! You have been abandoned by your infernal master! He shall transmute thee into mere cloth and fuzz rather than let himself come to harm. But Vrokthar is a far more generous master! Reveal to me the secrets of the Claus, and be showered with all the riches your tiny brains can imagine! Candy! Gold! Slaves! Beasts! Meat and mead in plenty! You need only sunder the chains by which the Claus hath bound thee!

Then, with you by my side, we shall raze the fool’s arctic manse. I shall take his beard as a trophy for my belt, and you shall have any number of his reindeer as yours! Truly, Vrokthar is generous to his friends, but his patience is limited. Speak now, or burn forever in a boiling pool of your own fat!

Wretched Wetlanders, Weakling Half-Men of the Fat South, heed the words of Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, on this, the eve of your pathetic day of thanks.

By the decrees of this loyal ensorcelled word-slate, it has become clear to Vrokthar that soon thou shalt feast. This strikes Vrokthar as redundant, as he cannot think of a time when you miserable cowards do not stuff thy obese faces with innumerable decadent confections. How canst thou tell the difference between a feast and thy regular obnoxious gluttony? But no matter.

Truly, a grand time shall be had by all.

Vrokthar, too, intends to celebrate this coming day. Yes, a feast of true proportions is being prepared by mine own slaves even as I etch my words into the ether. There shall be wolf liver boiled in blood! Goat brain! Many different confections of the boiled entrails of various venomous beasts! And, of course, a great platter of the finest man-bacon, cured from enemies slain by Vrokthar’s own hand.

And then, when the feasting has complete, Vrokthar and his thanes shall recline in his longhouse and boast and drink until the winter sun has risen again. This, by my count, ought to be four and a half days.

During this time, opportunity for contemplation will unfortunately arise. I realize thou must wonder, in your abject terror, what thoughts graces the unstoppable mind of Vrokthar. Does he contemplate razing your pathetic city to ash? Does he have designs upon your cattle and your children to increase he already vast wealth?

The answer is YES! Vrokthar shall take what he pleases, and what pleases him is vast and uncountable. That, however, is not where this conversation is going, you unspeakable toad-people. Think of others for a change!

No, Vrokthar, in those moments of drunken introspection, shall think instead of those things he is grateful for about your miserable, ill-begotten “culture.”

To begin with, Vrokthar is please you have deigned to crown the Trump as thy king. This makes him a worthy foe, and my armies will take great pleasure in setting fire to his golden tower and dragging him away in my battle sledge, there to serve me as a hairless, mewling slave. That is, of course, assuming his orangeness is not a sign of divine protection, in which case Vrokthar will have him skinned and mounted upon his best shield, so that I might be invincible in battle. It goes without saying that the pelt he wears upon his head will join my trophy case or, if it proves large enough (which is doubtful), I may fashion it into a loincloth for formal occasions.

Also, Vrokthar is inordinately pleased this year that many of your most odious and cacophonous musicians have, at long last, saw fit to die and leave mine ears in peace. This has been a most glorious year in that regard, for all wetlander music is decadent and depraved. All Vrokthar wishes to hear is the laments of his enemies and the wails of his suffering servants, and it is good to see that this is becoming the norm. Lo, but thy wails of grief have coddled Vrokthar in this trying time!

Finally, let it be known that Vrokthar is most grateful that the Chicago Cubs have at last won the World Series, and thereby lifted the century-long enchantment that hath protected the City of Wind from my wrath and the wrath of my ancestors. Truly, a great reaping is at hand! The city of Chicago shall weep beneath my heavy boots, and many skulls shall adorn my wall, complete with their Cubs-related paraphernalia (though any doubles shall be sold on EBay – keep an eye on my auction page).

Oh, yes, and of course I am thankful for skulls (and their innumerable uses in home decor and housewares), massive axes, mighty blades, and the howling arctic winds of the vast north, so cold that they might flense the flesh from the weak and give girth and succor to the mighty.

Though, now that I think about it, it is getting unusually warm up here lately, and the ice floes are paltry shadows of their former selves. Do you fools have anything to do with that? What black sorcery have you been devising?

Behold, wretched wetlanders, it is I, Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, Scourge of the Northern Wastes, once more compelled to visit my mighty displeasure upon thee and thy incontinent civilization. Oft in the past have I commanded this ensorcelled word-slate to convey my curses to your soft pink ears, but this time is different. Indeed, your fetid customs, while usually merely despicable and foolish in equal measure, have this time done Vrokthar true injury. Such injuries will be answered by your howls of pain. So have I decreed, and so shall it be. But before Vrokthar visits his meteoric wrath upon your flat, sweaty lands, let him first regale you with the story of the fatal errors that hath led thee to this bloody destiny.

As chieftain of a mighty tribe of marauders, it falls to Vrokthar to educate the youth in the art of violence and rapacity. These young ones flock to Vrokthar’s longhouse and squat by the side of his throne of skulls. By the firelight, I speak to them of mighty deeds and teach them the best way to flay a man whilst he lives. Woe betide the foolish boy who does not heed Vrokthar’s weighty musings, for it is he that we practice upon. The screams echo into the night, and we feast and sleep well.

Or so it once was. No more.

BEHOLD VROKTHAR’S MIGHTY PEDAGOGY!

In our raids, very many of my tribe have wrested magical treasures from the twisted hands of thy wetlander countrymen. These “computors” and “celled phones” have proven their worth to my people many times. No more shall we be forced to wander endlessly the vast tundras of my land in search of prey. No, the oracle GOOGLE now betrays thy settlements to us, and we pillage at will. The many sacrifices we have burned in for the honor of the GOOGLE are great. Their clever logos also bring much amusement to my warriors.

But these gifts have cost my people more dearly than you know. Now my young charges wish to use the spirit world of the INTORNOT to aid in their learning. Indeed, there are surprisingly many learning packages for the young barbarian, purchasable for reasonable fees. We, of course, do not buy – we take – and many educational software companies have perished beneath Vrokthar’s heavy boots. I now command a flexible and versatile platform of interactive lessons meant to occupy my students, meant to free Vrokthar’s precious time for more butchery and razing of wetlander settlements.

But it is not so. Vrokthar is BETRAYED!

The learning software has failed to function. My foolish students cannot manage to log on. The structure of the program is as dense and mysterious as the Labyrinth of Gloom. Vrokthar has not saved himself time at all! Indeed, I am now forced to poke and prod at mine own word-slate to goad the sluggard programs to load. I am forced to prostrate myself before mine sworn enemies, Tech Support, and grovel for aid. Hours have become days, days have become weeks, and my students are as stupid now as when they began. Worst of all is this: the screams that echo into the night are my own, as I curse and flail impotently at the educational software’s inferior User Interface.

I now ask myself: what was ever amiss with my mighty axe and my booming voice? Where did I go wrong? I answer the question thusly: You fools have done this to me. This is thy vengeance – this is how you seek to destroy the mighty Vrokthar, by denying his heirs his weighty wisdom.

It shall not stand.

Beware, mewling wetlander scum! Vrokthar the Skull-feaster hath ferreted out thy cowardly plot, and now he shall unroot thee. He shall strike from the frigid north like a thunderbolt, dashing down your mirrored castles in thy sedate office parks. Then, when you have been dragged a hundred miles on your knees, eating nothing but the flesh of your fallen compatriots, THEN shall you grovel at the foot of Vrokthar for your very lives. And THEN Vrokthar will show mercy to any who can manage to log in to their wretched INTORNOT portal on the first try. Those who succeed shall become my slaves. Those who fail shall learn new ways to scream as they become an educational message for all their ilk, their entrails shipped to their competitors in small FedEx envelopes for months to come.

Will the wailing of you weakling wetlanders never cease? Now, I, Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, Scourge of the Northron Wastes, am forced to listen to you moan and weep over who shall be your next King? What madness is this? What ails thy current King, the one known as “Obama?” Hath his death-drones abandoned him? Why can he not slay his rivals, as is fitting? Is his champion, Biden, bereft of blade and fire with which to burn the homes of his foes? This perplexes me.

Much thought have I given this matter. Listen well or die.

Why should finding the Obama’s successor require so much time and foolish preening, like cocks strutting in the yard? Why do these contenders not merely fall upon one another on the field of battle and the mightiest prove the gods’ favor in him? This talk of “super delegates” and “caucuses” is madness.

But lo, Vrokthar is no man to sit and ponder the mysteries of your depraved people! Vrokthar acts, and what he does shakes the foundations of the world! So it is that I will settle your whimpering, once and for all, and command you to choose the king who would suit thee best. Therefore, wetlanders, heed me: Trump is now thy new King. Bow down to the Trump, lest thee be slain for thy insolence!

Why? You dare to question Vrokthar’s wisdom? He who hath slain seven polar bears with his bare hands? He who hath razed thy villages and sold thy children into slavery in the Mysterious East? For this insult, all you and your clan shall have thy bones ground to meal to make my bread!

But, in the meantime, Vrokthar shall explain.

This Trump is the only suitable King for your wretched people. In the first place, he is an unnatural color orange, and therefore is no doubt blessed by the gods. Indeed, his skin may even be impervious to the spears of his enemies, as was the case with Golmarg the Yam-Colored in days of yore. Furthermore, this chief Trump is the only candidate who wears the pelt of a beast he hath slain upon his head. I know not what unnatural creature it was, but I can be certain that it was a mighty battle, given how restlessly the pelt lies upon the Trump’s brow.

Yes, the Trump will be a mighty King. Already he hath found innumerable enemies for thy people to ride forth and slay. Yes, much war and glory shall come to your shores with this new King. The name of thy tribe shall ring with fear the world over, and he even promises to be so fearsome that thy foes shall construct a mighty wall to keep thee out. It is a testament to the bloodthirsty urges of the Trump (and, indeed, to all barbarians) the height and length of the walls their enemies, in their abject terror, are forced to construct.

Let it also be known that the Trump speaks his mind, not fearful of being called a liar, for such persons will no doubt be silenced by his champions. He speaks in short words, which is fortunate for the many fools who dawdle their pointless existences within your borders, and when he speaks, he speaks of victory! Yes, the Trump promises to win in all things, just like a good chief must. Care not that he hath no “plan” or “knowledge” – such are the trappings of lesser men! A true king acts, he does not plan! A true king makes his vision true by force and rage and the blessings of the gods! Surely, his orange hide is proof enough of his virility!

The Trump hath many wives and hath built great towers to his own glory! He hath pillaged fortunes and then squandered them and then pillaged still more, without care for the weaklings who perished in his wake! Those who challenge him he mocks, for he knows they are too weak to face him in battle! He is, at long last, a King worthy of my own people, who ravage the northern wastelands and live hard lives worthy of the name.

Seriously – who the hell is this guy? Why is he a thing?

Who else wouldst thou select, fools? The duplicitous dowager queen? The wild-haired old madman? The beardless, malevolent wood-sprite? That other guy, who bears no discernible features?

No! It will not be! Trump is the victor – Vrokthar hath declared it! Kneel to him and his battle sledge, or become the first of the slaves tasked to build his mausoleum! So Vrokthar hath decreed!

Trust me in this, weaklings. It takes a true barbarian king to know his own kind.

Heed me, oh fat indolent swine of the decadent lands of so-called “civilization!” It is I, Vrokthar the Skull-Feaster, Scourge of the Northern Wastes, fresh returned from a bloody foray deep into the warm, fleshy folds of your worthless nations. Yes, many slaves and skulls hath Vrokthar claimed for the glory of the great god Mook’ta, He of Mindless Hatred. Chained be they still behind his battle-sledge, naked and shivering for fear of their imminent doom. Yes, a fine raid it was. Vrokthar is pleased.

He does, however, have some complaints about the food down there.

Observe how Vrokthar doth maintain his figure!

It has been Vrokthar’s assumption that, given the portly and purulent shape of you wetlander filth, that you at least understood how to eat things. How else could you have expanded your guts so that you must resort to clothing that stretches as you breathe? Try that with a belt made of a human spine – I dare you! Many times has Vrokthar resolved to forgo another mammoth feast so that he might not be compelled to slaughter his enemies pants-less. Not that I cannot, mind you – Vrokthar can slay any man, no matter what is flopping about.

But I digress.

My complaint is this: What fools prepare thy meats to be consumed? Vrokthar was in the midst of sacking a restaurant this last trip and the groveling fool of a cook offered to prepare for me any dish I chose in exchange for his life. I demanded a hamburger, rare, as befits a man of Vrokthar’s inimitable virility. So it was done as he commanded, and so it was brought before him. And what had happened?

The toppings were on the goddamned bottom of the burger. The bottom.

The lettuce, the onion, the tomato – all of it – was placed beneath the patty of meat and above the bun. What the flying fuck is with that?

To eat this abomination as it was presented to him, Vrokthar would be forced to place the tomato-blood and pungent yellow ichor atop the patty, thus creating a slick, slippery housing for the meat. Surely this will mean the meat will fall out of the bun, thereby rendering the entire enterprise worthless, for what fool would eat a mass of bread and vegetables and tomato-blood without the meat to make it palatable? Vrokthar, to his immesurable displeasure, was faced with two equally miserable options.

First it was suggested that Vrokthar merely put the condiments on the bottom and eat the burger upside down. The fool who suggested this was incontinently slain, and his finger bones even now grace Vrokthar’s charm bracelet. Upside down? NO! Vrokthar will not be forced to violate ancient and noble burger tradition because some ignorant, beardless chef thought it clever to put the lettuce on the wrong side. What, is Vrokthar to taste the sesame seeds first? Horrid and utter blasphemy!

Second some imbecile explained that Vrokthar himself might move the toppings from the bottom to the top. Even now the screams of this drooling ignoramus echo in Vrokthar’s ears as he was flogged and then dipped in the frialator for such an insulting statement. Do I, Vrokthar, slayer of thousands, look like a line chef to you? If it was my intention to make my own goddamned burger I would have killed the abhorrent cook in the first place and constructed my own. NO! Those who offer boons to Vrokthar in exchange for his mercy are responsible if Vrokthar is displeased.

Besides which, they are called TOPPINGS. Even Vrokthar – whose grasp of your wetlander tongue is deliberately vague, as he does not wish to clutter his keen mind with your mumbling, incoherent words – knows that TOPPINGS go on the TOP. Does Vrokthar need to break out a dictionary?

What fools decided this abomination was desirable? How has this been allowed to come to pass? Truly, your detestable society has sunk to even deeper lows that Vrokthar thought possible. It may be that there is no other option than to burn your cities to the ground, salt your earth, and despoil your livestock until violating the holy laws of burger-dom are no longer possible for you. Yes. It must be so. Vrokthar hath decreed thy doom! Hug your loved ones close, for thy time of judgement is nigh.

Just after Vrokthar hits up Five Guys. May the gods send this plague hath not spread this far.

Greetings, miserable slaves! Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, Scourge of the Northron Wastes, brings your weakling ears glad tidings! You muck-dwelling wretches are literate, or so Vrokthar’s thanes inform him. So it is that you have been chosen to workshop Vrokthar’s latest work of literary genius: “Vrokthar the Skull-Keeper.”

Behold my previous critique groups!

Yes, I see you tremble in delight at this mighty opportunity to strengthen your anemic minds upon the mighty words of Vrokthar’s dream-vision. However, the tale of this fictional barbarian slaughtering his fictional foes in numerous, spleen-wrenching scenarios is not yet perfected. Vrokthar was told that he needs “a new perspective” and “narrative objectivity” to judge his work. Naturally, Vrokthar immediately slew the incontinent fool who dared suggest such a thing, but upon drinking the imbecile’s blood, Vrokthar now believes he may have been hasty. So, I have searched my slaves for those worthy to read my opus.

Be warned, however! Vrokthar has tried several groups before yours, and each has been a more bitter disappointment than the last. These mewling Wetlanders have made unreasonable demands of Vrokthar, and even sought to embitter him towards his own word-hoard. So, they have died. This is where you come in.

Between now and when I am satisfied with your literary offerings to me, you will no longer eat nor drink nor sleep. Vrokthar’s art requires your fullest attention. Those who seek to leave my yurt shall be devoured by my hunting dogs, who even now wait in the dark in anticipation of your cowardice. Oh yes, your devotion to this task will be complete!

I shall remain here while you read, watching your blood-rimmed eyes devour every word with what I will assume to be rapt admiration. I furthermore demand that you inform me of the motivation for every facial expression you make. If you giggle, I must know why and, if the part you read was not intended to be funny, your life will be immediately forfeit. If you smile, I shall also demand explanation, and that explanation ought to be your grim appreciation of the new forms of slaughter the fictional Vrokthar hath delivered upon the deserving foe. Failure to do so will mean I shall flay you alive and then salt your flesh, so better preserve your corpse for the feeding of your fellow slaves.

Upon the mighty conclusion of my 22,000 word short story, once your long-lasting applause has lapsed into exhausted silence, we will begin our work. Each of you shall offer your opinion of my work. I demand honesty, for Vrokthar cannot perfect his manuscript without your courageous truths. Some of you, at this juncture, may be tempted to propagate vile falsehoods about Vrokthar’s story. For instance, that there “seems to be no plot, setting, or character development” or “the protagonist is never in danger.” Such fools shall be fed their own entrails as the others watch. To avoid this, as that manner of death is time-consuming and Vrokthar cannot spend all day screwing around in his yurt, here are explanations for your concerns in advance of your reading, so that your feeble minds may realize your errors before you make them:

Vrokthar’s character need not be developed, as he is already perfect. Yes, at everything.

Where Vrokthar slays his foes is unimportant, only that they are slain.

The plot is obvious – Vrokthar kills his enemies. How is this not obvious to you?

How can Vrokthar be in danger if he is perfect? This tale is meant to be realistic, you slavering baboon.

No, I will not change the POV. Go to hell.

Vrokthar uses commas when and if they suit him. The commas serve Vrokthar, not otherwise. No decapitated semicolon will give me orders, of that you may be assured.

Again, honesty is key to your survival.

Should you give Vrokthar the feedback he deserves, you shall be freed of your chains and set loose into the world once more. However, should you ever write a story about a barbarian named Vrokthar who slays his enemies, I will come for you again. You will pay me royalties or I will take your head. So it is written, so shall it be.

Once more the mewling cries of fat, indulgent southlanders have disturbed mighty Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, Scourge of the Northern Wastes, and compelled him to respond. Even now, the iron rails of his battle-sledge are being oiled in the liquefied fat of his vanquished enemies by the trembling hands of his many slaves. When my team of great dire wolves is ready to venture forth, the howl of my displeasure will eclipse their own, and then you fools will understand fear.

Until then, I will explain my displeasure in mighty detail, so that you shall know your weakness before you vacate your pitiful, tiny bowels at the sound of my coming.

The magic box of light in my yurt has glowed these past months with the many and varied curses you fling upon the gentle snows and mild temperatures of your pathetic southron winters. It would appear as though the prospect…

If you want the trophies of the great chief Bell’Ichick, come and claim them!

It is I, Vrokthar, Scourge of the Northern Wastes, come once again to pass his mighty judgment upon you pale, willowy wetlanders and your incessant whining. Listen well, and heed me, for it is past time you were made aware of your bountiful and various failures so that, when Vrokthar comes for you, you may well understand the justice of his bloody rampage.

For long days now, the luminous word-slate of Vrokthar has wailed and moaned with incredible persistence, so that I assumed your decadent and diseased culture must have, at last, fallen victim to some reavers of more robust and virile stock. Vrokthar opted to investigate, for he must be aware of all worthy foes. But, lo, when Vrokthar commanded the oracle, Google, to bring him the sights of this conquest – the hills of skulls, the fat-bodied ravens tugging at the entrails of the slain, the weeping faces of women and children in chains – he saw none of this! What did he see?

Deflated footballs!

Truly, your wealking people have fallen to a new low. Footballs? What foolishness is this? Oh, Vrokthar is passingly amused by your genteel and delicate notions of “sport” – wherein the opposing bands of warriors jostle one another for no greater purpose than to manipulate a pig’s bladder from one end of a field to the other. Indeed, this “football” is perhaps the closest your culture comes to achieving a modicum of strength. Vrokthar does not understand why the losing side is permitted to live and, furthermore, why those you have crushed beneath you are permitted to rise again before being disemboweled, but it is understood that your undernourished species is ill suited to stomach such practicalities. It is much like watching puppies wrestle, or children, except more pathetic and with no encouragement to bite and gouge at eyes.

Despite this, Vrokthar has grown to appreciate the great chief Bell’Ichick and his champion, Tom-Bradoon. He enjoys their wily antics and applauds the savagery with which they vanquish their foes (though, again, why let them live? Claim your prize, Tom-Bradoon! Thy longhouse ought be decorated with the heads of the many fools who hath opposed thee – skulls worthy of song and drinking goblets! The Mannings! The bearded Luck! The ridiculous bones of that fool, Tebow!). Recently, their slaughter of the pathetic Colts made Vrokthar smile – such cruelty! It would only have been the more wondrous had the Patriots been permitted to feast upon the flesh of the vanquished, but no matter.

Yet, rather than quake and tremble at the wrath of Bell’Ichick and his nigh invulnerable champion, the many howling cowards of this “NFL” see fit to wail over the inflation of a football? Truly, these shivering rats-of-men should be ashamed of themselves. What they resent is not the ball, but the victories. Tom’Bradoon hath slain (well, ought to have slain) their champions with disdain, and they are not men enough to face death (defeat, sorry – really, this would all be easier if the Patriots killed and ate their foes). The balls are of no importance. Does Vrokthar kill his foes with axe and spear to hear his new slaves lament that his spear was too long or his axe too heavy? No! It is not the weapons that have killed their people, but Vrokthar. They know this. All know this.

If you, cowards of the NFL, wish to claim the prizes of Bell’Ichick or Tom-Bradoon, come and claim them in just battle! That they hath vanquished you time and again simply confirms you are not their equal, so why should they trouble themselves with your impotent cries? They are mighty, and shall remain so unless Chief Caroll and his champion, Sher-man, can defeat them. Until this battle, then, Vrokthar demands silence from you, the powerless and banished. Were Vrokthar your foe, you would merely be thankful for your continued life, brief and painful as it may be.

Once more the mewling cries of fat, indulgent southlanders have disturbed mighty Vrokthar the Skull-feaster, Scourge of the Northern Wastes, and compelled him to respond. Even now, the iron rails of his battle-sledge are being oiled in the liquefied fat of his vanquished enemies by the trembling hands of his many slaves. When my team of great dire wolves is ready to venture forth, the howl of my displeasure will eclipse their own, and then you fools will understand fear.

Until then, I will explain my displeasure in mighty detail, so that you shall know your weakness before you vacate your pitiful, tiny bowels at the sound of my coming.

The magic box of light in my yurt has glowed these past months with the many and varied curses you fling upon the gentle snows and mild temperatures of your pathetic southron winters. It would appear as though the prospect of frozen water falling quietly from the sky is enough to make you quake in terror. Vrokthar would say he was surprised at this, but no – he is well aware of how weak and impotent you so-called civilized people have become. Barely a day may pass before Vrokthar must endure the wailing of some new milksop, no doubt fresh from his mother’s fleshy teat, moaning to his non-existent gods that he must dare walk an entire twenty yards in the cold air. Are you children? Have you not beards? If you lack beards, can you not weave scarves from the beards of those you have slain? What manner of delicate creatures are you? Vrokthar has known songbirds to endure better than you have. Even for weakling southlanders, surely you must be mocked for this fragility? Were I your co-worker, I would cleave your head from your body and leave it steaming in a snowbank if only to prove how long it takes for a mammal of your puffy, indolent proportions to cool.

Here is Vrokthar off on a picinic expedition in lovely June.

Here, in the Northern Wastes, we have but four seasons: June, July, August, and Winter. In Winter, the cold is a gift. It tests our strength as a people and weakens our enemies. As the icy arctic winds scrape across our exposed skin, we delight in the ceaseless pain it causes us. Who needs ears, a full nose, and all of one’s fingers and toes? Surely no true tribesman of Vrokthar’s people has need of such indulgences! We are strong! Those who cannot survive winter’s embrace have no need of life. We use their bodies to feed our wolves and their skins to make our capes, as it right and just.

You fools have no conception of true winter. Have you seen men drown in snow so deep it has no bottom? Have you been forced to thaw your eyeballs by dipping them in boiling water? How often have you licked the bloody blade of your sword, only to have your tongue stick in place and then been forced to fight the remainder of the battle killing men with your sword-tongue? None! You skip from your heated homes to your heated cars or trains to your heated offices, bundled in so many offensively-colored fabrics that you appear to be a pack of overweight circus performers, and yet you moan. “I’m going stir crazy from being inside,” or “I can’t stand shoveling this snow.” Bah! How can you have survived so long? How have not the squirrels and the alley cats not culled your hapless population? Cannot go outside? Are you an infant? Are you the descendant of tropical canaries?

Yes, yes – weep over your so-called hardships. Vrokthar comes for your soon. He will stride across your salted, shoveled property with ease and drag your sniveling carcass into the hot winter sun of your land. He will laugh, shirtless, and he strips you of your many layers of ‘fleece’. You will know cold then – oh yes – but not from your ‘winter.’ It will instead be the icy chill of my cold displeasure, come at last to find you.

It has come to the attention of Vrokthar the Skull-Feaster, Scourge of the Northern Wastes and Bane of the Help Desk Cult, that you wetlanders have grown anxious about thy impending doom. This at first pleased the might ears of Vrokthar, for he thought that the miserable wretches of those weak peoples had, at last, realized the futility of their existence and resigned themselves to glorious slaughter at the swords of Vrokthar’s mighty ravaging hordes.

But lo, Vrokthar was wrong! The outrage! The insult!

You limp-wristed fools fear the ravages of a horde of zombies? Zombies? What nonsense is this? Why should you pathetic weaklings be more menacing when infected with diseases and parasites? Vrokthar is no master of logic, but he does have considerable experience with parasites and infections and, take it from me, they do not make you stronger. Packs of diseased wetlanders would be as dangerous as an average pack of poxy swine – easily slain and a wondrous source of fine bacon. If you have not sampled man-bacon, I assure you it is delicious, and you puffy overweight un-men are a wondrous source of both plentiful bacon and the lard in which to fry it.

So, aside from providing Vrotkthar and his multitudinous progeny with unending supplies of bacon, of what consequence is your pitiful zombie apocalypse? Do you honestly think that you, fat lazy hog lounging on your plush divans and speculating upon the pelvic gyrations of your vid-trollops, are a mere infection away from dangerous weapon? I would gladly remove your zombie spine and wear it as a belt to prove your inferiority, whether dead or alive, but the spines of your people are notoriously difficult to find.

I can hear now your sniveling protestations: “But Vrokthar,” you whimper, snot dribbling from your rosy little noses, “there will be hordes of us! We will be too many?”

Think you that your numbers are of account? Bah! My blade has hungered for such an opportunity to test its edge. Your pathetic sense, so dulled by whatever infection hath corrupted your reason, will fall easy prey to me. I shall hack and slash my way through your miserable masses to utmost victory. You will have no organization, no leaders, no weapons, and no sense – thy doom will be assured.

So, speak not to me of the menaces of your ‘zombie apocalypse’. Such a worthless event, were it to come to pass, would not be frightening enough to make Vrokthar pass gas. He would simply bide his time in the bitter vastness of the north and then, when your pathetic culture had finally managed to laze itself into near collapse, I would blow my mighty horn, gather the hordes, and descend upon thee like the judgment of angry gods.